“It’s a wonder you ever got the list.”
“I wouldn’t have, if it had been anybody but the phone company. I told them, what I wanted; I said I had to have the list. They never called back to tell me how big it was going to be. They put a whole office staff on the job to get the list here by five thirty. I nearly dropped dead when I saw the size of the bundle.”
CLYDE BURKE sat down and lighted a cigarette. He glanced through a few pages of the list that he was holding; then tossed it on the desk.
“There’s only one point in your favor, Burke,” said Cardona, in a conciliatory manner. “This goofy idea of yours won’t stop a murder; but it might lead to some further step. That doesn’t help me now, though. If another victim goes the route, it won’t help him much just because he has thirteen in his phone number.”
Cardona paused glumly. Clyde Burke eyed the detective narrowly. The Shadow’s agent saw his opportunity.
“Look here, Joe.” Clyde tapped the list that lay near him. “Why did you take up this idea when I suggested it?”
“Why?” parried Cardona. “Because I’m as cracked as you are, I guess.”
“That’s hokum, Joe,” said Clyde, with a grin. “I remember what you said this morning. You pulled the stall that you were superstitious. That’s why you took up the matter of number 13. That was hokum, too.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know it. There’s something you haven’t told me about — something you’re trying to keep out of the newspapers. You know me well enough, Joe. I’m with you. I’ll keep mum on whatever you say. But why not put me straight?”
“Burke,” remarked Cardona, seriously, “you’ve been hunting too much news down in Chinatown. You must have found too many hop joints. Too bad” — Cardona clucked sadly — “just another reporter gone down the slide.”
“Now I know you’re stalling.” Clyde was emphatic. “Listen, Joe. I’ve been on the level with you. I gave you an idea and you took it up. I want to know why you grabbed that thought about the number thirteen. I’m going to find out, because you’re going to tell me.”
“I am?” Cardona’s question was harsh.
“You are,” retorted Clyde. “You are — or else—”
“Or else what?” barked Cardona.
Clyde paused. He studied the detective. Cardona’s fists were clenched. Clyde had gone beyond the limit.
Yet The Shadow’s agent remained unperturbed. Clyde had received full instructions. Cardona’s challenge had been anticipated by The Shadow. His message had provided the answer that Clyde Burke was to give.
“I’ll tell you,” declared Clyde quietly. “These lists here on this desk are a story in themselves. The number thirteen makes a corking tie-up. I’m ready to bust it if you bounce me out of here.
“I’ve got more than a hunch. I know that the number thirteen figures in these murders. You wouldn’t have jumped if it didn’t. If you don’t come clean, Joe, I’m going to shoot this thirteen story for all it’s worth.
“Thirteen clew in Neville-Engliss murders. Sleuth turns superstitious.” Clyde was staring toward the ceiling as though he pictured headlines there. “Phone company aids police search—”
“Lay off, Burke!” Cardona was on his feet. “You started this goofy idea of—”
“And you went through with it,” interrupted Clyde. “You can have the credit.”
CARDONA’S dark eyes were ferocious. Clyde met them with a steady stare. Two determined men were face to face. Clyde Burke could see that Joe Cardona was in a fury.
“You can’t do this, Burke!” came Cardona’s hoarse challenge. “What do you want to do — put me in Dutch with the commissioner? I’m on the trail of murder — I’m no bait for newspaper ridicule.”
“I don’t see it, Joe,” rejoined Clyde. “If this thirteen business means nothing to you, why should you get sore about it?”
Cardona had no reply. He stood glowering, not knowing what to say.
“But if it means something to you,” asserted Clyde, in a steady tone, “I’m with you to the limit. On one condition only — that you tell me what it’s all about.
“I’m not asking anything unfair. I brought you something that you thought was worth while. I don’t want to see my theory go in the ash can. I played fair. You know I always do. And fair play means a fifty-fifty break.”
Joe Cardona sat down behind his desk. He nodded thoughtfully. He had received the import of Clyde’s challenge. He was weighing the proposition. His capitulation came.
“You win, Burke,” declared Cardona, slowly. “I’ve got a clew that fits in with what you gave me. That’s why I rushed these lists. You always have played fair. Do I have your word that you’ll say nothing about what I show you?”
“Absolutely,” agreed Clyde.
Cardona reached in his vest pocket. He produced a folded envelope. From it, he drew the torn fragment of paper. He placed it on the desk in front of the reporter.
“I found that at Crane’s,” stated Cardona. “It was under the wastebasket. I discovered it after you were gone.”
“Men thirteen,” read Clyde. “Say, Joe — this does fit in with my idea.”
“Strangler Hunn wrote that,” asserted Cardona. “He must have made some notation from papers he found at Crane’s. He tore the paper when he knew there was a fight coming.”
“After he had killed MacAvoy Crane,” commented Clyde. “Say, Joe — just what kind of investigation had Crane been doing?”
“I’ve told you enough, Burke,” growled Cardona. “You wanted to know why I followed up your idea on number thirteen. I’ve told you. I thought that maybe this piece of paper meant something about thirteen men. After I heard your idea, I decided that I might be wrong.”
Clyde nodded. Tactfully, he came back to the subject of the paper alone. Picking up a pad that lay on Cardona’s desk, he printed with a pencil.
“It might read something like this,” suggested Clyde, as he handed the result to Cardona. “Other words on both sides of men and 13, with the little chunk out of the center of the paper.”
CARDONA studied Clyde’s inscription. In copy of Strangler Hunn’s wide-spaced style, Clyde had printed:
K I L L M E N W I T H
NUMBER 13 TELEPHONES
“That might be it.” Cardona shrugged his shoulders as he tore up Clyde’s effort and threw the pieces on the floor. “We’ve got two keys—’men’ is one and ‘13’ is the other. But you can guess anything for the rest of it.—”
The detective paused. A shadow had appeared at the door. Clyde Burke swung to see who had arrived.
It was Fritz the janitor. Cardona grinned.
“Bucket and mop on the job again,” was the detective’s comment. “All right, Fritz. Start to clean up. We’re leaving.”
“Yah.” was Fritz’s dull reply.
The janitor shambled toward the desk. He set his bucket close by Clyde Burke’s chair. His head was bent. Joe Cardona did not see the keen light that showed in Fritz’s eyes as they spied the paper fragment which lay in front of Clyde Burke.
“That’s all,” asserted Cardona. He reached over and picked up the bit of paper. “I’ve answered your question, Burke. If this clew brings any new result, I’ll let you in on it — when we’re ready to shoot the story. But in the meantime, I’m trusting you. I showed this paper to the commissioner and he said to keep it out of sight.”
“No one else has seen it?”
“No one except — well, no one except you.”
“All right, Joe. I’ll keep mum.”
“You’d better. If anything is said about this chunk of paper” — Cardona was putting the fragment in the envelope — “I’ll know who’s to blame.”